


Dear Philip

by beatriceHB



Category: The Crown (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:22:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14820866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatriceHB/pseuds/beatriceHB
Summary: A few months after their first meeting, thirteen-year-old Elizabeth finds that she cannot resist writing to Lieutenant Philip Mountbatten. If only she could think of something to say...Inspired by the story of Elizabeth and Philip's first meeting (at the Royal Naval College in Dartmouth, 1939). An IRL moment that I couldn't resist playing with in fiction. This is totally how it went, right?





	Dear Philip

Until now, Elizabeth’s letters had more or less written themselves. She’d simply been told that a letter was owing, and what she ought to say, and then she’d written it: _Dearest Granny, thank you for the new galoshes, they fit very nicely and Papa says that I look smart_ , that was the sort of thing. The words had never required any thought or, thank heaven, any imagination. But this letter was altogether different. She’d been sitting at her writing desk for a good half-hour and all she had so far was _Dear Philip_. It was hopeless. Nobody had told her to write this letter, that was the problem. It was all her idea… even if she wasn't quite certain why she was doing it.

In time of war, she knew, writing to one’s relatives in the forces was considered a good and dutiful thing. And Philip was both a relative – a _very distant_ relative – and in the forces. So there was that. But even so, she couldn’t honestly say that she knew him, exactly. She’d only met him once in her life. And it wasn’t as if he’d said “you will write, won’t you, when I ship out?” or anything of that sort. He’d just said a stiff goodbye under the watchful eye of her Papa. After that, he probably hadn’t given her a moment’s thought. _He_ had things to do, after all. _He_ was busy. And with matters of life and death, no less. So if she did ever decide what to say, it had better be short.

Suddenly restless, Elizabeth stood up so quickly that her chair almost fell backward. She went to the window and swept the back of her hand through the veil of condensation that had formed on the inside of the glass. Windsor was beautiful but bone-cold in winter, and now, in late November, the sun had only enough power to warm a thin rectangular slice of carpet, which moved slowly through her bedroom all day like the hour hand of a clock, leaving the remainder of the room icy as a tomb. The room had three windows and from this, the largest, window she could look down on the family’s most private garden with its smooth lawn, neat borders, and fountains. She peered through the little aperture she’d made in the misted glass and cast her eyes about hopefully, looking for words she might use:

_Dear Philip, how is the food on HMS Valiant? I only ask because there is a very vigorous apple mint growing beneath my window and I should be delighted to dry some and have it sent for your potatoes._

Idiotic. She clasped her hands together tightly over her stomach, as if that would prevent any more foolish ideas from escaping. Mint, for heaven’s sake. What view did Philip look out on, she wondered? Nothing half so green as this. If he could see a single tattered palm he’d probably count himself lucky. He was stationed at Alexandria (this she had discovered without having to ask, thanks to Dickie Mountbatten’s big mouth) and she’d seen pictures of the Royal Navy base there, which looked rather austere to her eye, like a huge, white prison. The interiors of those buildings were beyond her capacity to imagine. Instead, she would picture him in the cadets’ dormitory at Dartmouth (haphazardly constructed in her mind from the parts of that college she _had_ seen) but with a dusty heat rising about him instead of Dartmouth’s wet-sock fug, and a bright blue sky visible through the windows. She’d have liked to picture herself there beside him, but she found that she simply couldn’t. The very idea of herself in that place, all white ankle socks and unruly hair, was as embarrassing as it was preposterous. She much preferred to view him through the eyes of an imaginary boy, his friend perhaps. A boy on an adjacent bunk with whom he’d share laughs and confidences. This boy and Philip, all day they’d be side-by-side. There would be a great deal of teasing, of course, and Philip wouldn’t be able to resist showing off at every opportunity. They’d keep each other laughing through all the exercises and drills, and all the daily rounds – these were blurry in her mind - helping each other out when things got tricky. Then later, in the mess, after beating him resoundingly at some game or other Philip might casually throw an arm around his friend’s shoulder… “oh, bad luck.”

She had quite left Windsor behind when Margaret’s voice rang out sharp from the garden below and landed her with a bump. Elizabeth watched her younger sister skip out onto the lawn, her winter coat a streak of bright red in a sea of green. She wasn’t alone, a local girl had been rounded up to entertain her. Elizabeth thought she recognised the girl from their brownie pack. Alice? Alison? Something like that. Clearly besotted, the girl was jumping all around Margaret like a puppy and Margaret was glowing in response, all carefree smiles and musical laughter. Elizabeth looked away, suddenly aware of the tightness in her own face, the creases in her brow. When she wasn’t smiling everyone told her she looked cross.

It had been almost a relief when, about a year ago, Elizabeth had realised that she didn’t want to play with Margaret any more. Didn’t want to play at all, in fact. There had been times when it had been fun - just the two of them, climbing trees or putting on silly shows for Mummy – but when other girls came to visit it had never gone well for Elizabeth. Always they seemed to find Margaret vastly more entertaining. More comfortable. And before long Elizabeth would find herself looking on while Margaret and the other girl giggled and whispered, their friendship sealed with a bond of easy intimacy that she could never breach. They would only seek her out when something went wrong, when there was a problem that needed fixing. ‘Margaret has a lovely lightness of spirit,’ daddy was always saying. Well that only got one so far, didn’t it? Eventually, even the lightest of spirits needed a dash of good sense.

Philip’s image pushed itself into her mind again. He had a lightness of spirit, too, but in such a different way. His manner was over-familiar at the very least. Quite rude actually, if amusingly so. Perhaps it was the Mediterranean temperament? There was something in the sway of his arms that made him seem just the sort of person who might sweep you up and whirl you around any moment. It was rather remarkable, really, when one considered what that boy had endured; smuggled out of Greece in an orange crate under threat of death, his father’s inconstancy, his mother’s… trouble (whatever that was, nobody would say) and then losing his dearest sister in a terrible accident. Dickie had told her the story many times, but she hadn’t really heard it until Philip was standing right in front of her, seeming to defy it in every way. Some people might use a history like that as an excuse to be limp and despondent. But there wasn’t a trace of that on him. Not a trace. It was as though he’d got up one day and walked it all off. She’d been filled with admiration from the moment she’d set eyes on him.

It had been warm then, early summer. Papa had been visiting Dickie Mountbatten, taking Elizabeth, Margaret, and their nanny along with him. The time had come, as it always did, when Papa and Dickie wanted to talk in private, so Dickie had ordered one of the cadets (his nephew, as it happened) to take the girls off his hands and ‘show them around.’ If it had been a drag, to have two young princesses trailing after him when he might have been doing something more exciting, Philip had shown no sign of it. His first act had been to grin widely, then order them outside as though they were a couple of pasty-faced juniors he’d been asked to train up. “Right then, let’s get on with it. Are either of you handy with a mallet?” For a split second she’d almost burst with excitement, imagining herself pulling on overalls and setting about the leaky hull of a yacht, or somesuch – but then she’d seen the hoops and the ball and it had dawned on her with a silent groan that he was talking about croquet. Anything but that, she’d thought. Shooting would have been better, tennis even. “You’ll have to unclasp your hands for this.” He’d teased. “They do come apart, I hope?”

“Um…?”

Had he really winked at her? She wasn’t sure, everything had happened so quickly, she’d barely been able to keep up with it.

“I’ll let you girls go first, even though I do outrank you.”

Flustered, and with a persistent offshore wind blowing her curls into her eyes, she’d tried desperately to line up her shot.

“Oh no… nonono… you’re miles off target. Come here…”

She’d stiffened at the touch of his hands on her shoulders, gone as rigid as a wooden ruler, which had made it all the easier for him to turn her a few degrees to the right.

“That’s more like it. See? Now, give the mallet a few swings, build up some momentum… one… two…”

“I can count for myself, thank you!”

He’d backed away, hands raised as though she were pointing a gun at him, but clearly battling the urge to laugh. “If you say so, your Royal Highness. As you were…”

She’d missed by a mile.

“Oh, bad luck champ!” he’d laughed. Then stepped closer to say more quietly, just to her, “I’m going to destroy you…"

_Dear Philip, Best of three?_

It was such a happy little moment; was it any wonder that she liked to drift back there as often as she could? They’d been together, what, an hour or so? Give or take. And he’d always been smiling, or laughing, or showing off. When he hadn’t been talking to her, he’d been talking about her, trying to draw Crawfie or Margaret into his teasing. He’d made her the centre of everything. Could that be why she was so desperate to write to him? Shame twisted in the pit of her stomach and made her toes curl inside their shoes. Was it just simple, pathetic gratitude for the fact that he had seemed to like her?

She was used to people being nice, of course. Plenty of them were nice, and attentive, and flattering. But as soon as she was out of nappies Elizabeth had caught on to the fact that most of it wasn’t meant. Not really. Not from the heart. Margaret was quick to let her know how many people called her dull, unremarkable and serious behind her back. Even Mummy and Daddy, though they told her often what a gift she was, and praised her for her hardiness, diligence and unsentimentality, even they would never describe her as _fun_. Nobody was ever going to say, “oh you must invite Elizabeth, she’s the life and soul, so entertaining!” Philip, though… Philip had seemed to warm to her, cold as she was. To find her interesting, perhaps. Amusing, certainly. He had seemed intent on knowing her. And for the first time in a very long time, she had wanted to be known.

_Dear Philip, do you really like me?_

She’d been so desperate to impress him, and so certain that she couldn’t, but it had happened without her having to try. The more determinedly she’d applied herself, the more stiff and serious she’d become, the happier and more attentive he’d become, as though it were his life’s work to loosen her up. His grin had only slipped once when, as she’d taken her last shot, she’d accidentally given herself a hard knock on the ankle and almost fallen over. He’d looked anxious for a moment then, and suddenly at a loss. But she’d squared her shoulders and gritted her teeth, “oh it’s nothing, I could walk on it all day.” The tension had left him immediately, “I expect you could, too. You’re putting my boys to shame, you know. Have you thought of joining up?!”

She had a bit of a pash on him, that was the truth of it. Elizabeth was just about ready to admit that to herself. She was thirteen now and one saw other girls going through it. One couldn’t put off growing up for ever. But even so, one ought to do it sensibly. It wouldn’t do to go about having _feelings_ here, there and everywhere. Romance was incendiary; just a few years ago she’d witnessed it blow her family apart and almost turn her world upside down (which was all that ‘bring down the monarchy’ really meant to Elizabeth). Fall for the wrong man and it would be orange crates all round.

That was probably why she’d already discussed him with mummy – at least in the sense that she’d mentioned the name Philip Mountbatten to her in passing and scanned for a reaction. She’d watched her mother pause with a piece of marmalade-smothered toast halfway to her mouth, lips parted, eyes glazed, all essential functions shutting down while she made rapid genealogical calculations in her head, like a breeder weighing the pros and cons of a potential stud, until finally the response had come: “I hear he’s doing well?” Which Elizabeth took to mean “if you must, but I don’t think I like it.” Not the best reaction ever, but it was a promising start. Granny would be an easier nut to crack, in some ways, because at least she spoke plainly. Though her contribution had made Elizabeth want to be sick. “He’s still alive at any rate.”

_Dear Philip, I would be grateful if you could please remain alive._

Perhaps that was her reason for writing, after all. War was no time to be sentimental, but it was no time for hesitating either. Under normal circumstances, she could have waited and hoped to bump into him; there’d have been a family wedding soon enough, or a party of some sort. There would have been no need for urgent action, no necessity to stick her head above the parapet. But these weren’t normal circumstances. And even though she’d been tucked away as far from danger as was possible on these isles, something of the national mood couldn’t help but filter through. People were marrying who’d only known each other a couple of weeks. Marrying young, too, and unsuitably in many cases, if Mummy was to be believed. Not that she was thinking about… that sort of thing… it’s just that everyone was being reckless and hot-headed, that was all, trying to race through their lives at breakneck speed _just in case_. So even if you didn’t know why you were writing, or what on earth you wanted to say, or even if you ought to be doing it at all, it was still better to do it _just in case_.

Elizabeth marched back to her desk, jaw set. Come on girl, no more nonsense. Get it done and then forget about it.

_Dear Philip,_

_Thank you so much for taking the time to look after my sister and I at Dartmouth last year. I ought to have thanked you earlier, but I knew how busy you must be and I didn’t like to take up more of your time. And now it has been so long since we met, I fear you’ve probably forgotten all about it! But I remember how awfully kind you were and what a fuss you made of us, and I do hope we’ll have the opportunity to return the favour soon. Your uncle Dickie visits us often, as you know, and everyone here would be delighted to see you, too, if ever you have shore-leave and would like to be in the country for a bit. We’re all so very proud of you, and so thankful for your service._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Elizabeth_

She re-read it once, twice, three times. It seemed alright. Safe enough. Not too much. Perhaps not quite enough, though? After all, if one weren’t even going to hint at… well… you know… was it even worth the ink?

_Ps. Do you remember asking me if I’d thought of joining up? I know you were only joking, but honestly, I’d do it in a heartbeat if I could._


End file.
